I’m a wreck. I know that, staring at the reflection from the tall glass slabs of the North Building at Canary Wharf. A loose button near my blouse collar exposed my under vest, one end of my scarf loosely wrapped around my head and the other flying in the wind like a patriotic flag, untied laces of my newly bought gladiators exposing my redden feet, shoulders weighed down with kilos of books on inequality and poverty statistics and a million thoughts colliding in my head like free atoms.
I did not know how I happened to be standing at the core of the capitalistic hell or where I had been walking to look so disheveled. All I knew is that this was not a place for philanthropic thoughts and I had to leave the ideas about world peace in books where they belong. From here on I was going to be a one woman’s show.